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Aug. 27th, 2021 07:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smokingbootYesterday tired me more than it should have done.
My niece was up for a bit of shopping, so we went to Livingston. We came, we saw, she got two beautiful jumpers and was delighted. I came back to join the group meeting which went so well I won't jinx anything by talking about it.
Orb Lord sent me his rewritten Communist Manifesto, supposedly channelling Marx, though Maya Angelou got involved. The basic idea was that on New Earth, all property and resource is owned by the System, a computer with simple algorythms (Why can I never spell algorithms?) which also controls the press. Everyone gets a basic universal income which can be topped up by 'tips' for doing good deeds and making other people happy. The computer has been programmed, somehow, by The Collective.
In what can only be described as an afterlife given the Woolwich touch, Einstein and Marx know more about coffeeshopaccinos and the theme tune to East Enders than the subjects dear to them in their earthly existence. Maya Angelou suffered the most; from a woman of grandeur, of thought and eloquence and suffering, she got orbLorded into a southern sassy mammy caricature saying things like 'Gotta love that boy! All he cares about is god and crop circles!'
Our resulting conversation became difficult. I understand why; he asked my opinion and while not couched in ugly terms, he got what he got. I have blocked him now, as his responses were unpleasant, though having vented, he then seemed strangely determined to carry on as usual spamming me with more photos of clouds and documents full of unearthly wisdom.
I can feel the story in it though, somewhere; Elgar, endless bloody Elgar *while the Don Quixote of Wiltshire shambles down hills and into fields of wheat that coruscate around him and become something else; imagined encounters with Einstein and Marx and Lizard People, against a backdrop of doggers in the dark, angry farmers and badly planked crop circles. The routes of least resistance would lead either to the incomprehensibilities of Penda's Fen, or the Possessions of the Monster/Machine trope already well covered by Wells/ Kubrick/The Twilight Zone et al. Both have had great results but neither fit.
I will let this lie at the back of my head for a while, see if it ferments into something interesting. The reality became tedious some time ago.
My niece was up for a bit of shopping, so we went to Livingston. We came, we saw, she got two beautiful jumpers and was delighted. I came back to join the group meeting which went so well I won't jinx anything by talking about it.
Orb Lord sent me his rewritten Communist Manifesto, supposedly channelling Marx, though Maya Angelou got involved. The basic idea was that on New Earth, all property and resource is owned by the System, a computer with simple algorythms (Why can I never spell algorithms?) which also controls the press. Everyone gets a basic universal income which can be topped up by 'tips' for doing good deeds and making other people happy. The computer has been programmed, somehow, by The Collective.
In what can only be described as an afterlife given the Woolwich touch, Einstein and Marx know more about coffeeshopaccinos and the theme tune to East Enders than the subjects dear to them in their earthly existence. Maya Angelou suffered the most; from a woman of grandeur, of thought and eloquence and suffering, she got orbLorded into a southern sassy mammy caricature saying things like 'Gotta love that boy! All he cares about is god and crop circles!'
Our resulting conversation became difficult. I understand why; he asked my opinion and while not couched in ugly terms, he got what he got. I have blocked him now, as his responses were unpleasant, though having vented, he then seemed strangely determined to carry on as usual spamming me with more photos of clouds and documents full of unearthly wisdom.
I can feel the story in it though, somewhere; Elgar, endless bloody Elgar *while the Don Quixote of Wiltshire shambles down hills and into fields of wheat that coruscate around him and become something else; imagined encounters with Einstein and Marx and Lizard People, against a backdrop of doggers in the dark, angry farmers and badly planked crop circles. The routes of least resistance would lead either to the incomprehensibilities of Penda's Fen, or the Possessions of the Monster/Machine trope already well covered by Wells/ Kubrick/The Twilight Zone et al. Both have had great results but neither fit.
I will let this lie at the back of my head for a while, see if it ferments into something interesting. The reality became tedious some time ago.
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